He had always been more like a lover to her than a son. Mr. Ransome's transports (if he could be said to have transports) of affection were violent, with long intermissions and most brief. Ranny had ways, soft words, cajoleries, caresses that charmed her in her secret desolation. Balancing himself on the arm of her chair, he had his face hidden in the nape of her neck, where he affected ecstasy and the sniffing in of fragrance, as if his mother were a flower.
"What do you do?" said Ranny. "Do you bury yourself in violets all night, or what?"
"Violets indeed! Get along with you!"
"Violets aren't in it with your neck, Mother—nor roses neither. What did God Almighty think he was making when he made you?"
"Don't you dare to speak so," said his mother, smiling secretly.
"Lord bless you! He don't mind," said Ranny. "He's not like Par."
And he plunged into her neck again and burrowed there.
"Ranny, if you knew how you worried me, you wouldn't do it. You reelly wouldn't. I don't know what'll come to you, goin' on so reckless."
"It's because I love you," said Ranny, half stifled with his burrowing. "You fair drive me mad. I could eat you, Mother, and thrive on it."
"Get along with you! There! You're spoiling all my Sunday lace."